


And Our Sorrow's All Undone

by stormonmyskin



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Lewis Summer Challenge 2017, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormonmyskin/pseuds/stormonmyskin
Summary: He can’t bring himself to ask what he did wrong. He’s too afraid of the answer.





	1. Chapter 1

James watches another wince of pain cross Lewis’ face as he struggles to reach a file from an archive box wedged behind a filing cabinet. James has offered to reach it instead, but Lewis had bristled at the implication that he couldn’t, and became even more stubborn. His back has been bothering him for a few days, and James knows twisting it like that can’t be doing it any good.

“Sir, look, just…let me get it. And then we should get some painkillers in you, I think, there’s no sense in you being in pain. I’ve got some ibuprofen in my desk and I’ll get a couple of paracetamol from the first aid box.” There is a thud, and a grunt, and Lewis straightens up, an empty folder in his hands, its contents now curled, out of reach, at the bottom of the box. He sets it to one side and goes to lean over again to reach the rest. “Sir, please…I can reach those, go and take some pain medication, you must be in agony!” James is nearly begging him.

There is a pause, a beat of silence, and then Lewis turns angrily on James. “Oh, and why would you care?”

James is stung, to put it mildly. Where had _that_ come from? What had he done to give Lewis the impression he didn’t care? He’d only been trying to help him. He takes a step back, reeling at the anger in his boss’s voice. Lewis is breathing heavily and is red in the face. James looks away for a moment, takes the time to school his expression into one of indifferent blankness. He looks back at Lewis, but the man does not seem to soften, glaring up at him, and James sets his jaw.

“Very well, sir,” he says quietly, and turns on his heel, heading off in the direction of the staffroom. He moodily makes himself coffee and returns to his desk with it, settling into his work on the report Innocent asked for and studying his computer screen intently, giving off waves of _I don’t want to talk_. When Lewis passes his desk, the complete file now in his hand and armed with painkillers, James doesn’t look up, doesn’t react, and continues working. He can’t bring himself to ask what he did wrong. He’s too afraid of the answer.

6pm rolls around. As they have no case active at the moment (they’ve been taken off rotation after a hectic few weeks) and James has finished the report Innocent asked for, and another which she had asked to be completed by the end of the week, he shuts his computer down, and, in the most detached voice he can muster, calls in Robbie’s vague direction as he leaves the office, “Good evening, sir.”

Robbie’s head comes round the door to call James back, but James has already disappeared out of the office, the outer door swinging shut behind him, banging with an air of finality.

Bugger. Robbie, now with the pain in his back dulled and his bad temper with it, knows he needs to fix this. He can see so much more clearly now he’s not in pain. He thinks it unlikely James will be receptive to talking tonight, but he wouldn’t turn him away from his door, surely? Lewis is not convinced, but he doesn’t know what else to try.

When he knocks on James’ door later, bearing their favourite brand of beer and a bag of takeaway, a man he barely knows answers the door. Oh, it’s James, alright, but he looks like a stranger, nothing like the sergeant he knows and cares for. He is pale, his hair and clothes are rumpled, and the second he sees it is Robbie, it is like the shutters come down.

“Oh. Sir. What can I do for you?” James voice is detached, flat and cold, matching his face.

Robbie holds his bag of spoils up hopefully. “Can I come in, lad?”

James looks like he wants to say no, but he doesn’t quite dare. He holds the door open and turns around so Robbie can follow him in. He slumps down on the sofa, his usual impeccable posture nowhere to be found, and stares at the fire he has crackling in the grate. He has a half-finished glass of whiskey in his hand and a half-empty bottle on the table.

Robbie hurts to see the pain he has caused with one ill-judged statement. James doesn’t look up as Robbie fetches plates, cutlery and glasses from the kitchen he knows as well as his own, and sits on the sofa beside him, dishing out the takeaway – Thai, tonight, from that expensive place, because he knows it’s James’ absolute favourite, but he rarely splashes out on such indulgence.

He doesn’t know why he said what he did earlier. He was stressed, and tired, and his back hurt, and James had been bothering him about getting some painkillers in him and he had snapped at being fussed over. He wasn’t a child. He didn’t _need_ James to take care of him, thank you very much. He’d managed on his own for enough years. Managed without Val.

 _That was it._ He’d thought of Val, and in his already irritated mood, at the painful reminder he had shot straight to angry, and unleashed that anger on James – and damaged the lad a little more.

He passes a plate to James, who takes it with a vague sort of nod and a mumble of thanks, and Robbie knows he has made a right mess of everything. 

“James, lad,” he says quietly, once he’s finished his meal. “James, James, James.”

James rolls his head round to look at him. “Sir?”

“I’ve made a right old bloody mess of this, haven’t I?”

James just blinks at him. Robbie reaches out to James and wraps an arm round James’ shoulders, tugging him close in to his body. “I’m sorry. I was out of order. You were just trying to help and I bit your head off.”

James had gone home from work via Sainsbury’s and picked up a bottle of whiskey. He intended to get very drunk and pass out.

Robbie would never know how much what he had done had hurt, if he got his way. Oh, the act itself had stung a bit. The words had been harsh. But it was more than that. For James, it was just history repeating itself. No-one ever stayed with him. Everyone always left him, in the end, left him alone. And now Robbie, the man he trusted the most, the man he’d let discover things about him that he’d never told anyone else…Robbie was going to leave him as well. And it bloody well _hurt_.

So now Robbie puts his arm round James and pulls him close, James can’t control his reaction anymore. It’s too raw, too painful, and he’s drunk too much. His face crumples and suddenly he is sobbing into Robbie’s shoulder.

“Oh, ‘ey!” Robbie cries, clearly alarmed. He reaches his other arm around his lanky sergeant and pulls him even closer, almost onto his lap, and holds him tightly, rubbing his arms up and down and making soothing noises. “It’s alright, lad. I’m here. You’re alright now. You’re not on your own.”

James’ hands come up to clutch desperately at Robbie’s shirt. “Don’t leave,” he manages.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Robbie murmured. “I’ll stay right here. You’re alright.” He can’t imagine what’s going on in that head of his, but he knows James needs someone, needs desperately to be held, to be protected. “I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t…I was just tired, and bothered, and me back hurt, and I didn’t want you fussing over me, and I spoke without thinking. I’m not angry with _you_ , James. And I’m not going anywhere, alright? I’ll not leave you on your own.” He doesn’t know quite how badly James needs to hear those words; he’s only guessing at what to say, based on the fact that James asked him not to leave.

James is shaking, he realises, trembling hard in his arms, and he wonders how long James has not been okay without him noticing, or if this has all been brought on by his earlier outburst. Neither option makes him feel good.

Eventually, James manages to calm himself a little, reassured by Robbie’s soothing words, and by being held tightly. He rubs at his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Robbie.”

“Robbie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall apart on you like that. I just…” His breathing hitches. “It all got a bit much.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, son. Do you want to talk to me about it?”

James doesn’t respond for a long moment, and Robbie thinks he isn’t going to, and is about to tell hm that’s okay. But James just searching for the composure he’ll need for this. The trust he’ll need for this. He sits up a little more, and looks down at his hands. “Everyone always leaves. They all leave me. No-one has ever stayed. And you’re…” He hiccoughs a little. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. And I thought you were going to leave, too. And…I have drunk quite a lot of whiskey.”

“Ah, James,” Robbie sighs, pulling him close again. “James, lad. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Even if I’m angry with you – which I’m not. I’ll stay. As long as you want. I’ll always stay with you.”

James breaks apart all over again, and Robbie just holds him while he cries, rubbing his hands up and down James’ arms and repeating his promises not to leave. How long has James been alone? How long has he been _this_ unhappy? _How long has he hidden it?_

“I’m sorry, Robbie,” James mumbles again, swiping furiously at his eyes.

“I’ve told you, there’s nothing to be sorry for. No shame in needing someone, James. I’m glad that I’m able to be here for you. Breaks me heart to see you suffering.”

James has worn himself out, now, Robbie can see. His long limbs are slow and uncooperative. “How about we get you in bed, alright?”

James nods, and Robbie manages to manoeuvre him upright and somehow steer him to the bedroom. He tugs him out of his shirt and trousers, and forces his long arms and legs into his t-shirt and jogging bottom pyjamas. Then he takes him round the side of his bed and pulls the cover back, and settles him in bed. He is about to turn to head to the sofa for the night when a hand encircles his wrist. “Stay. Please.” Robbie’s heart breaks a little more, and he turns back to him.

“Course, James.” He doesn’t have any pyjamas with him, so he only breaks James’ grip to head round to the other side of the double bed, wherein he crawls under the covers fully clothed, and takes James, who has rolled over to face him, into his arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Come morning, Robbie wakes first, his James still in his arms. He doesn’t move an inch, knowing that soon James will wake, and, now not under the influence of a significant amount of whiskey, will be absolutely mortified and bolt. He only has a few more moments of being able to hold the lad the way he really needs before James’ inhibitions take hold.  
He wants to help James like this. Wants him to not worry about asking Robbie for help. Wants him not to suffer like this, and certainly not to suffer on his own. Wants James in more ways than he should. In ways James would never – could never – want him back.

The figure in his arms shifts and he resigns himself to having to let go. He rubs his back softly, and murmurs reassuring things. “You’re alright, lad.”

Slowly, James emerges from the cocoon of Robbie’s arms, to look up at his boss. His cheeks are stained an endearing pink. “Robbie,” he says slowly. He takes stock of the fact that Robbie is still holding him, despite it being morning and him being conscious.

“James,” Robbie says. “Before that big brain of yours starts getting worked up, I want you to know. I am more than happy with this.” He indicates the presence of James in his arms. “I want to help you in whatever way I can. I want you to be happy.”

One of James’ hands comes up to curl around Robbie’s shirt. “What if _you_ are the only thing that can make me happy?” He sounds lost.

Robbie stares back at him evenly. “Right, lad,” he says eventually. “I’m not a mind-reader, not with anybody, and certainly not with you. But.” He debates over the words, and then decides actions speak louder. He tilts James’ head up to look at him, and leans down. Presses his lips softly to James. Kisses him.

It’s lovely. Kissing James is lovely. Everything about James is lovely and Robbie yearns, aches, to take his pain away.  
Eventually, of course, James pulls back. “You don’t…have to. Pretend, for my sake, I mean. If you don’t want…”

“James. Look at me.” He waits until James does. “Do I do things I don’t want to? Would I offer that if I didn’t mean it? I realised a long time ago, bonny lad, that you. You kept me in the police force when I came back to Oxford – hell, you made coming back to Oxford bearable. You make staying in the police worth it – I wouldn’t want to if it wasn’t with you. You cheer me up when I’m down, you take care of me, you have takeaways and beer with me, you’re the best bloody bagman I could have ever asked for and you’re me best mate, and look. It’s wrong for an Inspector to feel like this about their Sergeant, but I don’t care. I _do_ want you. I want whatever you’ll give me. Friendship, partnership, or more; whatever _you_ want, _I_ want. It hurts me to see you hurt, James, and nothing makes me happier than seeing you happy. Do I make myself clear?”

James tilts his head up and kisses Robbie. "I love you, Robbie Lewis," he murmurs against Robbie's lips, and Robbie feels his own tears – happy tears – slide down and mingle with their lips and feels complete.


End file.
